You can’t choose your relatives, it’s been said, although I don’t know why we have to pick on family.  We don’t have a choice in a lot of matters, including weather, neighbors, and pants that supposedly have a 32-inch waist but apparently were designed for Scarlett O’Hara.

Or where we were born.  In his last concert before his death, George Carlin mused about bumper stickers that said, “PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN.”  Why proud? He wondered. 

Sure, glad to be an American, happy even, maybe overjoyed and fortunate, but proud?  It was an accident, the result of chance and choices made by other people; we just ended up here.

George liked to dig into semantics, of course, and also to take a dig at certain people and certain philosophies.  And “proud” means what you want it to mean, and none of this is a sneaky way to bring up immigration, except maybe in one small sense.

I grew up in Arizona.

I had no choice, although choices were made.  My parents, in fact, made a lot of them, and hopped back and forth between California (where I was, again accidentally but maybe not in the way you think, born) and Arizona more than a few times in their marriage, as have several members of my family. 

On the other hand, I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for nearly 30 years and this is my home.  I’m a naturally soggy person.  I like green stuff.  I like serious mountains and water and polite people who read books and ride bikes, and might say hello or might not.  I don’t consider myself an Arizonan in any way, shape or form.

But, again, I spent some formative years there, and while my feelings for the state are less affection and more nostalgia, I still have plenty of family and friends there, and I feel for them right now.  They’ve fallen on either side of the new immigration enforcement law, some passionately supporting it and some opposed, but all are under the national microscope now.

And all would suffer  – as if they’re not suffering now, with Arizona’s economic woes and housing prices through the floor  – if some sort of organized boycott were to take hold, which I seriously doubt, since most of these never do.  And the Grand Canyon is innocent in all of this, of course.

I’m heading for Arizona next week, as a matter of fact; maybe I’ll have the plane to myself.  This is a long overdue trip to visit my mother (People.  It’s my MOTHER), and maybe see a few other folks, so it’s on my mind. 

Look: I’m so very, very glad I left.  Apart from my love for where I now live, I had some issues with Arizona, politics and policy, weather, geography, melanoma, etc.  But I have a sentimental streak for lots of things, and somehow in the past week, with all of the national focus, I’ve suddenly  – and for the first time, really  – felt the urge to defend.  Or least point out a few things, none of them legal and all of them filtered through, as always, me.  So, space permitting, here are some things I like about our 48th state.

1.  It exists.  Seriously.  Phoenix alone makes no sense, like a city on Mars.  It sprawls in the middle of a desert, and until the 1950s the greatest demographic group was Gila monsters (in 1860, the census reported that there were 6000 people living in Arizona, two-thirds of them Native Americans).  People need water.  Flying into the city, it always surprises me.

2.  It’s diverse.  Of the metropolitan areas in the U.S., statistically the hottest and coldest cities are in Arizona, 200 miles apart (Phoenix and Flagstaff, respectively).  You can see plenty of cacti (more than plenty), but a short drive in several directions can fool you into thinking you’ve slipped into Colorado (a slightly longer drive).

3.  The Canyon.  What can I say?  I’ve seen the sun rise over the Grand Canyon more than once, spent my share of time staring down and feeling small, and always I’m ready to leave after a few minutes, as if it’s all too much for mere humans to gaze upon for long.  If you haven’t been there and done that, you don’t know.  And you should.

The 2001 Diamondbacks and the joy they brought my father. 

Northern Arizona University, where I met my wife and spent some of my happiest years. 

February, the month that central Arizona was apparently designed for.  Stunning sunsets. 

The Salt River. 

Barry Goldwater, who served his state in war, peace and politics, the quintessential Arizonan, for whom even liberal Democrats hold affection.

And friends and family, which is why I’m going, and why I do.  I’ll be glad, too, to come back home at the end, but then sometimes “home” means what you want it to mean.